The MP had been on holiday in Greece when Harry met him by chance in one of his local watering holes. A fair few sherbets later, Quicke had started bragging how he could influence which way the decision went when it came to awarding the contract. What Harry didn’t know was that Quicke was so far down the greasy pole, he wouldn’t even have had a say in what brand of bog roll they used in the House of Commons toilets, never mind influencing who got what contract. But Harry was taken in by all the guy’s blether and decided that bunging him fifty grand would be a sound business investment.
Of course, when it was announced that some other company had got the job, Harry did his nut. And when it turned out that Quicke had done bugger all to fight Harry’s corner, the writing was already on the wall.
‘Ah, I see. A simple matter of revenge then,’ said Bracewell. ‘One can only assume that our recently departed dishonourable member had no idea who he was dealing with or what he might be capable of.’
‘Should’ve just ‘ad the little bastard wasted, but I wanted me money back, didn’t I? Plus an extra hundred k for seriously pissing me off.’
‘Punitive damages, eh?’
‘If you like,’ said Harry, who by now had removed his sock and was using it to try and stem the flow of blood.
‘Still, I suppose one could say you’ve had your cake and eaten it too,’ said Bracewell, nodding towards the body of the MP in the overturned armchair.
‘Yeah, all except for a fucking ‘ole in me foot and the twenty-five grand that bitch and ‘er boyfriend waltzed off with.’
‘Oh?’ said Bracewell, raising an eyebrow at Delia.
‘Bit of a long story,’ said Delia. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘But do I take it that the remainder of Mr Vincent’s ill-gotten gains is in safe keeping?’
‘Of course,’ said Delia with a smile, and he pointed to the briefcase he’d left just inside the door when they’d first entered the flat.
Bracewell beamed back at him and patted him softly on the cheek. ‘Well then, I do believe our business here is concluded. – Shall we?’
He ostentatiously held out his arm, crooked at the elbow, and Delia slipped his own arm through the gap. MacFarland couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Not the gay thing. He didn’t give a flying fart about all that stuff as long as nobody tried it on with him. No, it looked like they were just going to mince off into the sunset and that would be that. Surely Bracewell wasn’t going to leave Harry alive. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? And what were they planning to do with him?
The two men stopped when they reached the armchair, and Bracewell looked down at Harry’s contorted features. ‘Goodbye, old chap,’ he said. ‘I won’t say au revoir as I very much doubt I shall ever have the misfortune of seeing you again.’
Harry stared up at him with defiant loathing, but his expression switched abruptly to one of surprise when he saw his nemesis slip the still silenced gun into his pocket. ‘Whassup, Julian? Lost yer bottle?’
‘Not at all, dear boy. I simply decided that killing you wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as leaving you to be found next to the body of the profoundly dead Member for Wherever-on-the-Wold. Even if you somehow manage to squirm your way out of this one, I have every confidence that our mutual friends in the constabulary have a rather long list of reasons why you should spend the rest of your days as a guest of Her Majesty.’
Harry hawked and spat, but the distance was too great, and the gobbet of phlegm landed harmlessly on the floor. Bracewell tutted and was about to continue on his way out of the flat when Delia held him back.
‘You don’t think he’ll be able to get out of here before the police arrive, do you?’
‘Hmm,’ said Bracewell, scratching his chin and frowning. ‘Good point.’
The words were barely out of his mouth when he whipped the gun back out of his pocket and shot Harry through his other foot.
‘Fuuuuuuuuuccckkkk!’
Bracewell slowly unscrewed the silencer from his gun and squinted as he watched Harry writhing on the ground and clutching his newly wounded foot. ‘You know, Harry, despite your age and the fact that you could do with losing more than a few pounds around the tummy area, that tan of yours is going to make you awfully popular in the prison showers. Toodle pip, old boy.’
So saying, he set off towards the door with Delia at his side, and MacFarland fixed his eyes on the gun which Bracewell had not yet returned to his pocket. He’d often wondered what it felt like to be on the wrong end of a bullet, and it was well on the cards he was about to find out. Aye well, as long as it wasn’t the stomach. – Oh Jeez, no. Not in the stomach.